Brink
by strayphoenix
Summary: It was ransom or payback. My dad had pissed off someone who thought it'd be a good lesson to teach him if they kidnapped his youngest daughter. But Wally…wrong place, wrong time. Now they had a loudmouthed chunk of collateral damage they could exploit against me. Pre-Insecurity.
1. Boiling Point

**This Story Occurs Pre-Insecurity**

—

_brace yourself rightly for my heaps of faith;  
they drain fuzzy and dry normally through my hands.  
with the end we will know it was all a mistake, but  
at the brink we'll collect our scarring scarlet sands  
and relate  
though there isn't enough hope in us left to break._

—

**One - Artemis**

It's a good thing my bow and TASER arrows are leaning up against some wall in the locker rooms, far away, because all I want to do right now is stick one or two in Wally's face.

"You know what, Wally? I'm honestly IMPRESSED," I say coolly.

His smirk morphs long enough for one of his eyebrows to shoot up at me. I feel a twisted sense of satisfaction that I've thrown him off his game, at least for a second.

"Because I saved you the trouble of humiliating us all YET again…?" he asks, regaining his cheeky.

Tightening my jaw, I snarl back in the most pleasant sounding tone I can manage, "Because no matter how low my expectations for you seem to sink, you CONSISTENTLY make them go LOWER."

Robin's signature cackle dances in from the living room, cutting off Wally's response. "That's what SHE said!"

"SHUT UP, ROBIN!" we snap in unison. I hear Zatanna shush him too from her place on the other side of the couch.

I take the distraction to reiterate bitterly, "I missed that shot, Baywatch! THAT'S me admitting it, okay? But we GOT Clayface in the end! What do the technicalities even MATTER to you now?"

Wally crosses his arms in that infuriating way of his that boasts that he knows more than anyone in the room. I would punt him in the jewels if I hadn't already learned the hard way that he wore a groin cup almost 24/7.

He swallows a fistful of chips from the bowl on the island before answering, matter-of-factly, "If YOU'D been paying more attention to where he was running instead of what everyone else was doing, we would have caught him HOURS ago. And I would have had time to be home for _Game of Thrones_."

"Are you SERIOUS?" I shout at him, throwing my hands up. "THAT'S what this is all about? Put it on the freaking DVR!"

He plays offended. It's a look the jerk should definitely play more often.

"And record over M'gann's favorite sitcoms? No way I would do that to my favorite Martian!" he declares.

"Oh…wow! That mission really took some of the _unf _out of our bikes!" M'gann suddenly mentions, anxiously pushing away from the counter on the other side of the kitchen. "Conner, we should REALLY go fix them…_now._"

I watch his swagger deflate as M'gann pulls a confused Conner out of the room with some deserved relish, even if it WAS one of her most obvious tactics to get out of involvement in our spats. I'm happy it _bothers _him like it does, though I'm not totally sure why I can't convince myself to drop the topic altogher.

"If you want to criticize my skill set, I'll be MORE than happy let you take up the bow in my place," I challenge. "Hey, maybe then I'll get a chance to run around in circles saying witty things in the middle of a fight!"

Wally holds up his hands as if to placate me, grudgingly returning to the argument I wasn't finished with. His peace offering is made moot by his eye roll. "I wasn't trying to CRITCIZE you, Blondie—"

"Oh, _right_," I cut in sarcastically, because I'm especially bitchy, "Who died and made _you _Batman?"

"I was only trying to SAY," he says, louder, "that _ROY_ would've made that shot. That's all."

And there's the rub.

He says it so easily, so backhanded_. _Like he hasn't been running this gag in my face or behind my back from day one. Like nothing I EVER do will ever be good enough for the team, or for HIM, because I'm just a cheap replacement for Red Arrow.

I'm so mad, I'm shaking. My fists clutching at the Cheetos bowl under my arm that I'd completely forgotten that I was supposed to be eating.

"Well here's a reality check, Kid Doofus!" I shout. "I'm NOT Roy! ROY's not here! And Roy's not coming back! So either put on your big boy briefs and DEAL with it or GET OUT OF MY FACE about it before I shove an arrow up your—!"

"Artemis!" Kaldur exclaims, no doubt appalled at my language. No doubt everyone is, especially if Wally's face is any indication.

But I'm too pissed to care. Without thinking, I grab the Cheetos bowl from under my arm and throw it at Wally's face, not even waiting to savor the bowl sitting on his head, hat-like, before turning tightly and storming out of the kitchen.

Almost four months I've been working on this team. Four months fighting alongside him, saving his ass and him saving mine and STILL I'm getting crap from him about being second best? You can go to hell, Wally West! You can go STRAIGHT to hell and find yourself another fucking archer to be your target practice because I have every right mind to go home right now and never come back.

I'm done with this crap.

* * *

**One - Wally**

Wow. TOUCH-Y.

I pick a Cheeto out of my hair, because it's really a waste of food on her part, and comment, "Sheesh. Lesson learned trying to talk to Artemis when she's PMSing."

Kaldur shoots me one of the dirtiest looks I've riled out of him. Which is saying something. "That was uncalled for, Wally."

I inhale Cheeto powder in my surprise. "Me?" I cough, bewildered and choking. "SHE'S the one who threw a hissy fit and ATTACKED me!"

"Because you continue to insist on comparing her to Red Arrow," he says firmly.

"I was only pointing out the facts!" I say to my defense, coughing out the last of the stuff. "Roy would've made that shot and we all know it!"

"Roy is not on our team." Kaldur crosses his arms. With his eel tattoos, it makes him look like he's being hugged by snakes. "Artemis is. And while she may have not phrased it most eloquently, she is correct in her advisement that you come to terms with this fact sooner rather than later."

He's taking her side! I can't believe it. Whatever happened to 'bros before hoes' and all that?

"Robs, bro, back me up here!" I call into the living room.

Dick ninjas into the doorway next to Kaldur before I've even turned back to it, shooting me the most sympathetic look he can manage with those stupid glasses of his.

"Sorry, man. Kinda on Kaldur's side on this one. You WERE being pretty douche-y to her…"

"COME on!" I throw my hands out. Some of the Cheetos I could have salvaged from my shoulders slide off. "She took it WAY too personally! Batman practically told her the same thing in debriefing!"

"Dude, not like THAT he didn't," my sorry excuse for a best friend replies, irritated.

M'gann would have taken my side, I tell myself. But with her gone, I turn to my last hope. I lean over the counter into the living room and ask in my suavest voice. "Zee, hey. ZeeZee. Didn't Artemis flip her lid for no reason?"

Zatana glances over the back of the couch uncertainly. All I need is a 'yes', babe...

"Well…" she hedges, "maybe you shouldn't have brought it up after we all changed back to civvies…?"

I'm screwed. It's a three to one vote and even if I'm wrong—which I'm not!—spending the evening at the cave as was the plan is going to be a pain in the ass if everyone's ganging up against me.

My arms slump back down to my sides. "Fiiiine," I grind out, beaten.

I take exactly two seconds to speed-eat every Cheeto Arty was SO kind to toss my way before speeding out of the kitchen, down the halls, past the training platform, and to the zeta tube transporter just as she's opening her mouth for voice recognition.

She jumps back at my sudden appearance. Damn, it's good to be me.

"SorryIbroughtupRoy," I say in a speedoflight monotone, crossing my arms over my chest.

Artemis just glares at me with those slanted eyes of hers. Sheesh, and I thought SUPERMAN had heat vision.

"Kaldur sent you to apologize, didn't he?"

"No," I say, and it's true. He didn't exactly tell me I had to apologize. Just to prove it, I add, "Seriously, why do you have to throw a bitch fit just because I bring up Roy?"

Stiffening, she moves to step around me. "Because you do it after EVERY OTHER damn mission," she answers in a snarl.

I hop back to barricade her again, answering, "I do not," automatically, before realizing she may have a point. "So what if I do? You should be USED to it by now. Not be so…emotional about it."

"Maybe SOME of us don't like to be constantly compared to our predecessors," she fires right back, stepping around me again. "Maybe SOME of us aren't as content as OTHERS to be constantly reminded that we're only ever going to be SECOND BEST."

She's getting me riled up and God help me if I don't hate her for it. "THIRD best, actually," I correct haughtily, stepping back again as I throw the jab back in her face. "Green AND Red Arrow could probably own you ANY time."

Artemis snorts unattractively. "That's rich coming from the THIRD fastest man alive."

I open my mouth to fire back that Jay was _retired_ and so he doesn't count when I feel the tingling whoosh of sensation that comes with the Zeta beam transportation. Next thing I know, we're both materializing in the middle of an alley in the freezing wind. It's snowing in droves.

GREAT. In the middle of trying to apologize, the Zeta transporter must have thought I was going with her and scanned me up too. Perfect. Now I was stuck in Star City with my least favorite person in the universe.

Artemis looks startled for a second, like she's surprised to see me here too though I was OBVIOUSLY just talking to her. I can't even remember what I was supposed to be saying. Right, something about her stupid comeback…

But I don't get the chance before she starts buttoning up her jacket frostily.

"You know what? KEEP your apology, Wally. I don't need your sympathy OR your judgment. Stay out of my way, and the most I can promise is not to SHOOT you anyplace that'll need surgery."

"Like you could even catch me in your sights!" I call after her as she starts walking away. I'm tempted to button up my shirt too because it's freezing but I don't want her to think I'm copying her. My anger's keeping me warm just fine anyway.

She flips me the bird over her shoulder as she stalks towards the street. I blow her a raspberry and she snorts, "REAL mature."

I cross my arms again, a bit tighter this time to fend off the cold, as I turn right back around on the spot to grab the Zeta tube back to the toasty warm of the cave. Screw Artemis! If she wanted to be a bitch for no reason, it WASN'T my problem.

The recognition light on the concealed tube flashes once in the same second I hear the screeching tires. I turn towards the sound, idly curious, just in time to see the gray Mustang hit her.

Artemis slams into the windshield with her shoulder, her head, and flips over the top of the car in a flying mess of limbs and frantic blonde hair before sliding off the back.

It takes me an entire second to realize I'm frozen. By the time I remember I still have legs and superpowers, Artemis is almost to the pavement. I switch to instinct, reaction. Casual identity disappears. Kid Flash Hero Mode goes on at 100% capacity.

Next blink I skid under her and catch her in my arms before she hits the ground.

Half her face is starting to bleed. Her eyes are wide, wild. Her shoulder looks funny. Her arm is bent all wrong.

Experience tells me she should've brushed off the initial blow, bounced back to her feet spitting like a cat. So when she doesn't, when she just lays there in shock, staring at me with a thousand questions, the blood trickling down her face, I realize she may be in worse shape than I can see. My gut instinct says run her to a hospital. If she was a civilian, there wouldn't BE a second option. But my training screams stay, investigate, figure out who did this and why? How?

It's only been seconds. Artemis coughs once, hard. Blood splatters on my white undershirt.

Oh, yeah. Hospital. NOW.

I stand at traditional human speed—which is a hell of a lot slower than my adrenaline wants me to be moving—worried that if I pick her up too fast I may make everything worse.

"Artemis—"

Then the pain explodes across the back of my head. I'm aware of my arms going limp, dropping her, hitting the ground blearily myself.

Then blackness.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: An insanely late birthday gift for KagomeInu5 (also known as barru44allen also known as bella44swan also known as CHANGES_HER_USERNAME_EVERY_FEW_WEEKS), who got me watching YJ and shipping Spitfire to begin with. I wanted to try my hands writing something in the style of _The Hunger Games_ and figured this would be the perfect venue to give it a shot.


	2. Breakout

**Author's Warning**: You've probably played video games gorier than the medical textbooks I've read, but for the squeamish of stomach, beware! There be blood ahead.

* * *

**Two - Artemis**

I wake up to throbbing pain in my arm. Why is it nine times out of ten I wake up to pain?

I groan, coming to. My left arm feels like it's on fire. Then I remember that, oh yeah, things like this are bound to happen when you get _hit by a car._ I need to know how bad it is.

Gingerly, I try to move it but it feels restrained. I peek an eye open. It's…in a _sling_? I roll over onto my other shoulder to better take a look. That's when I spot Wally across the room.

"Wally!" I hiss loudly.

I push myself up on my good arm, my bad one sending a spike of pain through the left half of my body. I don't trust myself with standing up so I awkwardly shuffle over to him on my knees and one arm, trying my hardest not to move the bad one.

"Wally!" I shove him roughly, "Wall, wake up!" No reaction.

Smacking him doesn't help. Neither does insulting his mother. He's dead to the world and at least for now, I'm on my own.

I glance around: looks like we're in a rectangular crate. Flat metal panes decorate the walls and ceiling and the shape of a door stands out near the corner, with no handle.

I scoot to sit back against one of the steel walls to rest my arm. But when my back comes in contact with it, I jump away. It's warm, a little TOO warm. Like a microwave on a very low setting. My stomach drops with uneasiness but I steel my nerves and break down my situation like my training taught me.

Okay, so I was hit by a car. A car I didn't see because fury apparently DOES give you tunnel vision and once we get out of this, I'm blaming Wally for everything. But yeah, car. Wally caught me—…_it's still his fault—_then I blacked out. In a steel plated microwave room with him now. There's a door, but no handle. No other visible entry points. I grit my teeth as I tenderly poke at my bad arm. It's probably broken, at least fractured if I'm lucky. Seriously though what kinds of kidnappers give their victims _medical attention_?

I check my pockets for the collapsible crossbow I keep on hand at all times, but my pockets are empty, cleaned out of everything in them, including my wallet and weapons. Damn.

Finally, forever late as usual, Wally groans awake beside me.

"Rise and shine, princess," I say humorlessly. "Can't wait to tell you how _screwed _we are."

"Wazzit whozzit?" he grumbles incoherently, sitting up and rubbing the back of his head. He looks to me, his eyes focusing. "You okay?"

I point to my sling arm and try to pretend I don't feel like a jerk that I was ready to rip him a new orifice and the first thing he asks me is if I'm okay.

He catches himself. "Well…that's what happens when you _jaywalk _in Star City! Cars _hit_ you," he says smartly.

"And _kidnap _you?" I shoot back, hiding my small amount of relief. He didn't know that was Gotham. He didn't notice. Thank god for tunnel vision.

"_Not_ so much a complimentary pair," he agrees, trying to get to his feet. Wally leans on the wall before I can get to words out to stop him.

He yelps and yanks his hand back. "Yeowch! Hot hot hot hot!"

I roll my eyes—force of habit—as he finishes getting to his feet, shaking out his hand. I'm pretty sure I won't be able to get on my feet without support, but I'm not ready to ask Wally for it yet. Too busy still kicking myself for letting an entire _car _get the jump on me.

So I let him walk around a bit, investigating, though I doubt he'll catch anything I didn't spot already. Meanwhile, I timidly test out my bad shoulder. It feels like it's been _dis_located and _re_located within the last couple hours, ("Why isn't anything ever just _located_?") and it's one of the worst feelings in the world. It makes it feel like something's still wrong with that shoulder when there really _isn't_ anymore.

"What do you got, Sherlock?" I ask.

"Looks like a storage container," he says, walking over to where the handle-less door is, "that someone tricked out, cut in half, and tossed on a Bunsen burner."

Huh. I hadn't considered that. "The floor isn't hot," I point out, feeling it. But it's soft, padded with rubber.

Wally does something weird. He puts his hands on his hips and takes a gulp of air. "Well the air's not too bad right now. But if it keeps going up, we might have to worry about suffocation."

"Lovely," I say, and take a gander at getting to my feet. My head spins and I almost stagger into the hot wall before Wally catches me. I glance up to say something but end up face level with his blood stained undershirt. My stomach summersaults. Was that _mine_?

Wally steadies me until I can stand without his direct support, then I ask, "So, got a plan?"

He just smirks. "Three."

"I got five," I counter. "Unfortunately, two of them involve us being _armed_ in some way. You got anything on you?"

He lets go of me to turn his pockets inside out to my same results, complaining, "Oh man, they took my candy bars!"

A sound from outside interrupts me before I can rail on his prioritizing. Footsteps, heading our way. Wally and I exchange a look. Even though we can hardly go ten minutes without throwing some kind of jibe at each other on our down time, I _can_ appreciate how Wally (_usually_) totally goes on the hero clock when the situation calls for it.

Without M'gann's telepathy, we read each other's minds. I take the right side of the door, Wally takes the left. We're both extra careful not to touch the walls. I ready my good hand to give the signal.

There's a sound of jangling keys and muted conversation until finally the lock clicks. I brace myself for the door to open, to swing and punch with one arm and make our daring escape. But it doesn't. Instead, there's a pause in the conversation.

Someone says, muffled, "Wait."

I exchange a quick look with Wally, confused. Then the shot blast rings out.

The acoustics of the crate make the sound _agonizing_. One arm isn't enough to cover both my ears and I'm scared I've gone deaf in the uncovered ear. But when the ringing tones out, I know I haven't because I can hear Wally screaming.

I open my eyes and for a second see him on the floor, clutching with both arms at his bleeding leg, before the door swings open at me and two men storm in.

I shake off the shock just in time to step back for a more wiggle room and punch the first guy, a smaller man, across the face with my good arm. A little skip forward while he's dazed, and I drive my knee into his solar plexus. He goes down.

"Now, now," the other starts, seemingly amused, "we wouldn't want anyone to get—"

Without stopping, I spin on my standing foot and hook kick Goon 2 in the temple. He crumples down too. I don't even stop to lament that I'd meant to hit his jaw and the cast arm threw me off balance.

My vision swirls but I dash over to Wally on the ground clutching his leg. The blood's running down his pants, soaking into his socks and sneakers and I fight to keep my poker face on as I try to find where the actual wound is, pressing my good hand to where he seems to be clutching.

So I'm not prepared when a _real _muscle grabs me in a one armed bear hug from behind. I thrash instinctively and kick at him as he lifts me off the floor, but he only has to flex once and the spike of pain in my arm is so _sharp_ I'm sure the bone's going to split in two. The spots dance in front of my vision and I cry out, still kicking blindly, hoping something connects.

"Still kicking, sweetheart?" the muscle asks, his voice deep. "Very well. You'll be the only one."

I notice the gun in his other hand as he points it at Wally.

"_NO_—!"

The containment crate explodes with the blast again, but my ears are tuned on the frequency of Wally's agonized scream, watching in horror as his other knee explodes, the blood splattering onto his undershirt and the black floor.

"WALLY!" I hear myself screaming. "_WALLY!_"

"Now, will you come quietly, Ms. Crock?" He pulls back the hammer of the gun. "Or will we have to even out your boyfriend with a couple rounds to his shoulders as well?"

He's serious. I go limp in his arms, my eyes riveted to the growing pool of blood under Wally's tangled legs. I choke my screaming. Wally doesn't.

The man calls his goons and they stagger out the door, woozy, but I can't take my eyes off Wally, screaming and writhing on the floor as the muscle takes me from the room. I'm shaking hard trying not to make a sound.

Outside, he drops me on the ground. I have barely enough time to catch myself, forgetting momentarily that I don't have use of both my arms, before he grabs my good arm in a vice and starts dragging me towards a second crate. My training directs me. I get a short, limited glance of my environment through my distorted vision—a storage lot, a highway rumbling somewhere above us, a fence, a canal—before I'm inside the second crate, being shoved into a chair and handcuffed to it.

One of the hardest things to do in a situation like this is to think rationally when an ally's been hurt. I have to shut down the half of myself that isn't going to help—the part that can still hear Wally screaming from the other crate—and pull myself together.

They're setting up a video camera on a tripod three feet in front of me. I think through the adrenaline, turning it to my advantage like my father trained me, and all I hear in my head is _Ms. Crock, Ms. Crock, Ms. Crock. _

If they were gunning for superheroes, they should've called me _Artemis_. They should have done something to restrain Wally's superspeed. Did they really think he was just my boyfriend? Had they actually just shot _Kid Flash _in the kneecaps without knowing he had superpowers?

_Ms. __**Crock**__. _It clicks.

This has something to do with my father.

It's either ransom or payback. My dad had no doubt pissed off some non-superpowered thugs who thought I was daddy's defenseless little girl who they could kidnap and hold hostage. They didn't want to hurt me—that was obvious by the cast. Maybe they just wanted to send a message to my father and keep me in tact long enough for him to get it. But _Wally_…

Wrong place, wrong time. Now they had a nice chunk of collateral damage they could exploit against me.

But if they think I'm just Crock's little girl, then they've _hugely_ underestimated me. Sometimes, underestimation is a stroke of luck. People are more likely to give out information if you let them _boast_ about it rather than if you try to _beat_ it out of them. Maybe playing the helpless/clueless card is my best shot here.

I put on my most terrified face—which at this point, isn't really that far of a cry for my acting skills—and ask in a shaky voice, "W-What do you want from me?"

The muscle man gets behind the video camera, smirking.

I try to choke down the vomit swirling in my stomach since I woke up and the wooziness throbbing in my temples. It doesn't help that I can still hear the crystal clear sound of Wally screaming.


End file.
